


Solitary Man

by chrissie0707



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family Drama, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissie0707/pseuds/chrissie0707
Summary: Preseries. Loosely tied to my 1X02 tag "Hymn for the Missing." The old man could call back any minute with a new case for him to jump right into. No rest for the weary. Not that Dean told his father about the Black Dog getting a piece of him, or about that poltergeist in Dayton that tossed him down a flight of stairs last month, or any of the other close calls.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	Solitary Man

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hey there! It's been a while, huh? I am happy to report that since you last heard from me, I have won two writing competitions and placed in three others, and have published about eight short stories, with another two scheduled for upcoming anthologies. Mostly Dark Fantasy, with a couple of Horror pieces thrown in. What I *haven't* gotten done is that first draft of my book. You know, the thing I said last year that I was going to work on in this short break from fanfic? Yeah, well. 2020 hasn't really gone the way any of us thought it would.
> 
> I had a lazy three-day weekend, and decided that I was going to get one of the handful of half-written SPN stories finished and posted. Somehow, that actually happened. So here you go! Here is a preseries story I've been working on FOREVER, that is loosely tied to "Hymn for the Missing," my tag for 1X02.

Consciousness returns like the snap of a rubber band.

Dean sucks back a panicked breath as his eyes open to disorienting darkness. He clumsily searches the damp concrete near his splayed legs for his dislodged weapon, heart pounding, ears tuned to any evidence of the Rawhead. Within seconds he realizes the damn thing must be dead because he wouldn't have woken up otherwise; also, he doesn't miss.

His scrabbling fingers close around the grip of the spent taser and he immediately feels better with a weapon in his hand. There's also a knife somewhere in this chilly, dank basement, knocked from his grasp and swallowed by the darkness the first time he was slammed to the ground. That vicious initial blow is also the reason his head is throbbing and he's fighting the urge to puke as he rolls to his knees and squints into the darkness.

As Dean's eyes adjust to the meager moonlight streaming through a high window, he spots the Rawhead's corpse sprawled only feet away. Faint tendrils of smoke are still rising from the creature's tattered clothing. The smell hits him then, a combination of charred meat and wet dog, and it flips the switch inside. He drops the taser, catches himself on his palms as he falls forward to empty the meager contents of his stomach.

He shifts away from the mess and slumps back against the cold cement with a groan. He takes stock: dead Rawhead, darkness of night not quite run out, splitting headache and a missing chunk of time – that part isn't great. It takes a few moments before a dozen other aches settle throughout his punching bag body. Probably longer than it should. His pulse bleats in his head, in the spot where he'd struck the wall, and every hitching breath is a fresh stab in his side. He sucks in one breath too deeply, and a sharp, biting pain in his left side scream, _mistake._

_Fuck._ He bites down on his lip, remembering the impact of the Rawhead's massive arm against his ribcage, the _crunch_ that drove the air from his lungs and sent him careening headfirst into a wall. He'd been bobbing and weaving after that, playing more defense than offense, the dark basement wavering in and out of focus as Dean finally lifted the taser and did his best to take aim at the charging monster.

He knows he needs to get out of here. He has no idea how long he's been out, but it had been just shy of midnight when he tracked the Rawhead to this abandoned, soggy warehouse in the roughest part of town, and the cover of night must be nearly run out. It's a good thing there isn't much to risk leaving the body in the building, because he's pretty sure he _couldn't_ move the thing if he had to.

Dean reaches over his head with his right arm, the one he can move without wanting to puke – again – and uses the wall behind him to carefully work his way upright. Or, at least, get his feet under him. He'll work on upright once his skull isn't screaming and his ribs aren't protesting every move. Tucking his left elbow into his side, he lurches toward where he thinks he remembers the stairs are. On the way, he staggers through more than one damp spot on the concrete, shakes his head.

He's damn lucky he didn't electrocute himself.

***

He drives back to the motel mostly on autopilot, and pulls the Impala to a mostly steady, mostly straight stop outside his room. He has every intention of gathering his meager belongings and getting back on the road, until the moment he actually cuts the ignition.

The last dregs of adrenaline are fading as the engine _pings_ and _pops_ in the still, damp dark of pre-dawn and for what might be the first time, the thought of an aimless drive holds no appeal. Dean sags against the seatback, his breathing shallow and ragged, and too loud in the quiet car. His body is stiff and sore, and despite the mugginess of an early midsummer morning, he shivers in his canvas jacket. He's glad he doled out the cash for a room instead of camping out in the car. The worn bench seat is comfortable enough when it needs to be, but there's no way he'd manage in the cramped confines of his baby tonight. Not when he's pretty sure that goddamned Rawhead broke his ribs.

On top of the knock to the head and the probably – Dean shifts on the bench, winces – definitely broken ribs, he'd already playing wounded, right leg still giving him hell where that Black Dog took a chunk out of his calf.

Hunting is a dangerous gig. Doing so without backup is downright reckless.

There have been some close calls since he and Dad split up. He's not sure how long it's been since they last hunted as a pair. Less than a year, surely. Except he's not so sure, as time doesn't seem to mean much anymore. They haven't spoken in a week, and that's something he can confirm by checking the call log on his phone. Not since Dean was holed up outside of Cheyenne nursing that bum leg and Dad called to pass on the details of this job in Greenville in that clipped, no-nonsense way of his.

Dean scratches at the left side of his head, and his fingers catch in the blood drying in his hair. _God,_ he's tired. Right now, the walk from the car to his motel room might just be what does him in.

_You've had worse,_ he tells himself as he throws open the car door and plants his boots atop the cracked pavement. _Buck up._ He can't afford anything else. The old man could call back any minute for the details. Or more likely, since Dean had told him the job would be done tonight, with a new case for him to jump right into. No rest for the weary. Not that Dean told his father about the Black Dog getting a piece of him, or about that poltergeist in Dayton that tossed him down a flight of stairs last month, or any of the other close calls.

Regardless of the childish bitterness he feels, he perks up a bit at the prospect of his father calling. Of _any_ human contact, really. He's been keeping to himself, getting the job done without raising any eyebrows or giving anyone a reason to remember him passing through. He can't recall the last honest-to-God conversation he had that wasn't getting a motel room, ordering a meal, or discussing a hunt. In any case, the thought gives Dean the energy boost required to scoop up his ratty weapons duffel from the bench seat and haul his battered body from the Impala. He pauses for one shaky moment next to the car to allow the world to settle before propelling his wobbly legs across the parking lot.

His uncooperative feet take issue with the elevation discrepancy of the curb; he pitches forward but somehow manages to keep from taking a header to the cement. When he finally makes it to the door, the key sticks, because _of course_ it does. Dean puts his shoulder into the cheap painted wood and pops it inward with a grunt, then shuffles across the threshold.

He drops the bag to the floor and cuts a direct path through the inky darkness to the bathroom. The light switch clicks hollowly, the bulbs mounted over the patinaed mirror buzzing as they flare to life. Dean slams his eyes shut and ducks away from the explosion of light but nearly loses his balance, slams a palm against the countertop to remain standing.

When he blinks the stars from his vision and turns back to inspect his reflection, he wishes he hadn't. He hardly recognizes the man in the mirror, this stranger with too much stubble and a dull, exhausted gaze. Dark blood crusts his left eyebrow, a tacky trail from a gash at his temple. His head is still pounding mutedly, but it doesn't look too serious. He reaches up to prod the spot but a sharp, sudden pain in his shoulder stops him short. He frowns at the bloody tear there, where a large claw had snagged and cut through three layers of fabric to gouge skin. _Filthy fucker was quicker than he looked._

Dean rotates the joint with a wince, presses a palm to the bloody spot. He twists the tap and the pipes beneath the sink groan in protest as water bursts from the lime-encrusted faucet. He splashes a couple palmfuls of cold, metallic-smelling water over his face, hissing as his fingertips brush fresh bruises. Pink droplets hit the basin as the blood washes away. He drags off his torn jacket and does little more than allow it to drop to the floor, then turns again to better inspect the wound in the mirror. It's not concerningly deep but smarts like a mother, and he's going to need to clean it out. Without thinking, he draws too deep a breath and the stitch in his side nearly takes his knees out from under him. _Stronger than he looked, too._

After the stars have dissipated, he raises the hem of his t-shirt and exposes a stretch of deep bruising along his ribcage. He looks like shit and feels worse. It was a long night, and a longer, more brutal fight than he was anticipating. His body aches and the persistent throb in his temples is demanding sleep and probably food, though it's unlikely the side of his face that is currently technicolored would pass by the order counter without comment.

_Blend in,_ Dad's always said. _Don't raise eyebrows. Don't ruffle feathers._ Words Dean hasn't always found easy to live by. He finds it easier now, doing things Dad's way, thinking maybe if he plays the good soldier long enough then Dad will come home. Relatively speaking, anyway. There's no denying he did some acting out after Sam took off. One door closed with a resounding slam, and a dozen others were left open. Dean backtalked, stayed out all night without checking in or answering Dad's calls. Made the old man drag his drunk ass out of more than one sleazy dive bar, sometimes even before the fighting started.

He probably had this coming. The unanswered, unreturned calls. The passive aggression. He earned it. Deserves it. All said, it's sort of shocking Dad left him the Impala when he took off six months ago.

Or has it only been four months?

The water is still running, spitting erratically from the faucet to spot the countertop. Dean turns the tap, leaving the room in a sudden, all-encompassing silence. He wipes his palms along the thighs of his jeans and spins back toward the main room, navigates the short distance to the bed by virtue of the muted yellowish light spilling from the bathroom. With an elbow tucked close to his throbbing side, he lowers himself gently to the edge of the creaky mattress.

Dean sits there a long moment, breathing shallowly, fingers twitching around the edge of the bed as tremors rack his body. He shouldn't have sat down, curses himself. He's dropped his guard, allowed his exhaustion to get the better of him. He still needs to clean the undoubtedly filthy tear in his shoulder, still needs to try calling his father again to relay the details of the job. Not the hours spent tracking the damn thing, or that he allowed it to get as close as he did. Not the cut on his shoulder or the knock to his head, or the fact he can hardly draw a breath without wanting to cry. What Dad will want to know about is the kill, so he can add the notes to his journal and revel in the fact he was right about the Rawhead's vulnerability to electrocution.

Dean's shoulders slump as he realizes his cell phone is in the pocket of his jacket and his jacket is in a heap on the bathroom floor. He sighs in frustration, but it's just as well. The old man won't answer anyway.

Probably.

_Dammit._

Dean grits his teeth and shoves up to his feet. He wavers once he gets there, the room momentarily graying out around him. As he crosses the room, every step is a sharp, white-hot stab in the side. There is no one around to play tough for, but he still bites back a groan as he gingerly crouches. The angle is torture on his ribs, and he finds himself holding his breath, watching a drop of sweat fall from the end of his nose to the linoleum. The dingy, yellow-hued room rolls lazily around him, and he blinks hard until the world rights itself.

He digs into the pocket of his discarded coat until his fingers unearth his cell phone, then collapses against the wall in a trembling, panting heap. _Pull it together,_ he scolds himself. He's had so much worse than a couple of busted ribs and what is probably a concussion. He closes his eyes and draws a few shallow breaths, fire raking his chest, before he punches in his father's number.

_"This is John Winchester. I can't be reached – "_

No rings. Straight to voicemail.

_Nice, Dad._ Dean huffs and disconnects the call before the message plays through completely. He doesn't need to hear it to know his father is unavailable.

He pushes up from the floor on traitorously unsteady arms and staggers back to the bed, forgetting all about the weeping gash in his shoulder, the unwrapped ribs. The covers are still rumpled from the previous few nights, the sheets stale-smelling. No housekeeping allowed; he learned from the best. But he's been knocked around and hasn't slept in over twenty-hours, and he wants nothing more than to fall facedown onto the wrinkled bedspread, bury his face in the thin, musty pillow, and sleep for the rest of the day.

So, he does.

***

Dean wakes gradually, in gauzy stages that feel like wading into the ocean with the current tugging at his legs, threatening to steal his fragile balance and drag him into its inky depths.

He surfaces after an indeterminate amount of time. The curtains weren't pulled completely closed, and a shaft of sunlight stabs his eyes as soon as he works them open. Licking dry lips, Dean rolls his sweaty head against an already damp pillow. A hot tickle builds in his throat and he coughs, wet, harsh, and painful. He's obviously been hacking like this for a while. He has no idea what time it is; hell, he has no idea what _day_ it is. What day it _was._

He loses his fight against the current and drifts again. When he next manages to pry his eyelids open, the small and inexplicably frigid room is bathed in a sickening orange glow. He burrows under the covers and coughs, violently jarring what he now remembers are likely several broken ribs. It just fucking figures he would come down with the flu on top of everything else. He feels absolutely lousy, like he can't possibly be expected to pull his leaden body from this bed, maybe ever again.

He's in and out after that, feverish and chilled, unable to distinguish the line between dream and reality. He dreams in shapes and shadows, disembodied voices that feel like memories he's fought to keep buried. When he's conscious, every sensation is dialed up to ten. The sunlight piercing his eyes, the fiery itch in his untreated shoulder, the severe chill that leaves him shivering uncontrollably, the sickly pounding in his skull, the white-hot ragging as his breath skips in his chest.

When Dean next wakes – really _wakes_ – consciousness has a tenuous foothold. Awareness might be a fleeting thing, but he knows he's in trouble. Over the past few weeks, alone and confused and hurt and angry, he's allowed himself to get too rundown, allowed relatively minor injuries to pile on. He'd given in – _given up_ – to the demands of his thrashed, weakened body, and hadn't taken care of the rip in his shoulder, hadn't wrapped his ribs. Dad'll have his _ass_ when he finds out.

_Dad._

Dean summons his strength and flings his right arm to the side, slaps blindly at the bedside tabletop until his fingertips brush the casing of his cell phone. He drops the device to his chest and pauses to catch his breath. _Damn._ He closes his eyes when the ceiling lurches and spins overhead, swirling water stains threatening his stomach. He gets himself together enough to lift the phone without immediately dropping it on his face, but his hand is shaking, and it's touch and go. He presses a button. Nothing. The screen remains dark, the battery obviously run dead. _Fuck._ Okay, so he's been out of it for a while. Too long.

He swallows painfully, his throat Sahara-dry. He drops the phone to his side and curls his fingers into a fist, but his hand won't stop shaking. Yeah, he might be in some real trouble here.

He levers up in bed a few inches on unsteady arms and when his vision clears, he settles his gaze on the motel phone on the beside table. It's an inexcusable offense, but with a gun to his head, he couldn't recite his father's phone number right now. He has no one else to call, even if he could remember _their_ phone number.

Bobby, maybe, or Pastor Jim. It would really help if Dean could remember where the hell he is. He thinks farther south and east than either man could make in good time.

His groggy, boiling brain offers, _Sam?_

The thought actually makes him laugh, a snort that gets caught in a round of coughing and leaves him curled on his side, hacking until hot tears sting his eyes.

***

The next time he grazes consciousness, he's being jostled awake, rough, calloused palms against his forehead, his cheek. _Dad,_ he thinks, and weakly leans into the contact. The hands shift to Dean's throbbing, huge-feeling shoulder to tentatively fiddle with the covers twisted and trapped there.

"Oh, God," breathes an unfamiliar male voice.

_Shit,_ Dean thinks, head clearing enough to know he has monumentally fucked up. John Winchester is a lot of things, but tentative ain't one of them.

"Yes," the voice says now, farther away from the bed and with the urgent tone and cadence of speaking with someone else. "There's a young man here, and he's very sick. It looks like he was…like he was stabbed."

_Shit. Shit shit shit._ Dean's head spins. At this rate, he's just about broken every rule they've ever had. Dad will never trust him again. "No," he says, or at least thinks he does. The weapons bag is…somewhere. And the car. The trunk. This is not good. His breath catches painfully in his chest as he tries to sit up in bed, and he is too easily pushed back flat.

"Help is on the way, son."

Consciousness ebbs, and when it returns there are new, different hands. Cool and sure and not giving Dean much choice in the matter as they shift blankets and shirts, as they thumb up his eyelids and assault his eyes with a penlight. He's vaguely aware of exactly what's happening, but barely has enough energy left to care.

"Can you tell me your name?"

He grunts, couldn't say whether it's meant to mean _Dean_ or _get the fuck off._ The blinding light disappears, leaving him in a suffocating bubble of hot, breathless dark. He blinks, works his eyes open. His vision is fuzzy, but he manages to isolate more than one human-shaped blob in the room with him.

"Is there someone we can call for you?"

"I had a brother," he mumbles, without thinking. His tongue slips out to moisten his dry, traitorous lips, and the fuzz enveloping his brain clears away a bit as what he's just said settles. He hasn't mentioned Sam in…God, _years._ Not to Dad, not as a surefire sad story to get laid, not to _anyone._

An ache builds in Dean's chest that has nothing to do with fractured bone or infected lung, or the fact he's barely pulling in enough oxygen to stay on this side. _Sammy._ He hasn't missed his brother so badly since the kid first walked away.

"A brother? What's his name? Do you have his phone number?"

Yeah, he's got Sam's phone number, somewhere. He's also got some ocean front property in Arizona to sell this guy if he thinks Sammy's gonna pick up.

Something large and uncomfortable is pressed to his face just as black starts to creep into the edges of his vision, and he willingly slips backward into oblivion.

***

_Hospital,_ he knows when consciousness next digs its claws in, before he even gets his eyes open. _Shit._

There's no mistaking the sterile smell stinging his nostrils, or the too-crisp feel of the sheets against his feverish skin, the invasion of an IV in each forearm.

That's not good. So much for staying off the radar. _Dad's gonna be pissed._

_Dad._

Dean works his eyes open around a groan, only to shut them immediately. The light in the small room is dim, but still enough to turn his stomach and drill an ice pick through his temple. He struggles to orient himself to his surroundings, his situation. He's mildly surprised to find he's not handcuffed to the bed; it certainly wouldn't have been the first time he woke in such a way. The door has been left open a few inches, muted noise of ringing phones and hushed conversation filtering into the room.

His chest feels heavy, his throat dry and cough-raw. His body doesn't feel right, feels disconnected and not like _his._ He gets his eyes open again, orders his fingers to move. He gets a hand up, one attached to an arm that feels leaden and tingly. He scrubs clumsy fingers across his face, feels out too much stubble and dislodging the nasal canula there. He realizes then that he can breathe, for the first time in…he has no idea. Somehow it feels like hours and days, all at the same time.

"Mr. Foster. You're awake."

He turns toward the voice, heart skipping as he thinks first _Sam_ and then _Dad._ The man standing at the door is neither, and Dean kicks himself for allowing a stranger to sneak up on him like that. Most of his senses, his instincts, are completely shot. He remembers that Foster is the name from the ID he'd been carrying in town, for the hunt. Reporter from one of the big papers in Raleigh, working on the story of the missing kids. It makes sense; it's the name he was registered under at the motel.

The man steps closer, and Dean struggles to focus. The presence of an admittedly blurry name badge clipped to his shirtfront, the stethoscope draped around his neck, it all screams _doctor._ "Can you tell me what happened to you?"

"S'a cat," he croaks, the strain of speaking torture on his throat. He's pretty sure a hot nurse is supposed to be feeding him ice chips, but it's just the guy with the chart, and he doesn't seem amused.

The man raises his eyebrows, expression serious. "You ready for the rundown?"

Dean nods, fingers fumbling for the controls to adjust the bed, but he's already propped up at an angle. Probably to help him breathe.

"You were admitted with a mild concussion and three cracked ribs," the doctor says, flipping a page that appears scrawled over with dark handwriting. "The wound in your shoulder was infected but is healing nicely now. Most seriously, pneumonia had begun to set in from complications with the rib fractures."

Dean blinks slowly. "Was a big cat?" he offers, pulling at the oxygen in the canula. His ears are buzzing, head feeling light from just a handful of spoken words, but he's already focusing on the past tense of the doctor's phrasing, plotting his breakout. "How long?"

"Two days. Your fever broken late last night."

He nods along, but the words mean nothing. He doesn't know what time it, what day. His head spins from something that has nothing to do with the aftermath of a high fever or lack of oxygen. Despite the fake name at the motel, he can think of no scenario in which he has been admitted to this hospital without the weapons, and his wallet, being found in that motel room. No scenario in which he has laid here for _two days_ without the arsenal in the Impala's trunk being discovered and the cops called, the car impounded. He has a dozen unregistered firearms in his possession, a fucking _grenade launcher._ None of this makes sense. Dean looks down again at his uncuffed wrist, turns it against the stark-white blanket with a faint crinkle of medical tape, and tries to come up with an answer.

_Dad,_ he still thinks. It has to be. His old man coming to his rescue, covering his ass. Again.

***

He stops thinking _Dad_ when another two days pass without the man making an appearance. He chocks it up to pure dumb luck that no cops have been involved yet. Or maybe he was just in _that_ bad of shape.

His dead cell phone made the trip to the hospital with him, and he managed to charm a charger to borrow off one of his nurses. Or maybe he just looked _that_ pathetic. Dad hasn't called back yet, and Dean isn't about to be the first one to reach out just to have to tell his father that he tripped up this badly.

His left arm is still shaky and he's weak as a newborn kitten, not to mention the fact he can hardly walk across the room without getting winded, but he can't stay here any longer. If Dad doesn't know what happened to him, then he's likely to have a new job for him soon, and Dean can't very well tell his father that he'll have to call back later because he's in the middle of an extended hospital stay because he forgot the rules of rib fractures.

He's given prescriptions for antibiotics and painkillers and instructed not to be shy about using either. A nurse stands by the door, cocking her head with infuriating sympathy as he struggles to pull on his boots. "Is there someone we can call for you?"

"No," he says, shaking his head as he takes a moment to catch his breath, sweat breaking out at his temples. "No, it's just me."

***

He chocks it up to more pure dumb luck that he finds the key to the motel room is in the pocket of his jeans, along with the Impala's key ring.

He would just take the break he's been given and leave; he _should_ just leave, but anything he owns that's worth a damn was in that room when he was hauled out by the paramedics. His clothes, his 1911, his Bowie knife. All probably still there, along with his wallet, or someone would have had some questions for him at the hospital.

It's still early in the morning, and the bricked one-story row of rooms is quiet, the curtains all drawn. The manager's office is dark.

The Impala is waiting at the curb exactly where he left her. There's a sprinkling of dust on her hood, dried mud caked in the ridges of the tires and splattering the wheel wells, but she's never looked more beautiful. Dean nearly sags against her, but he knows he doesn't have the time to waste.

The key sticks in the lock, again. Dean puts his palm against the door, drops his forehead to the red-painted wood. He is way too tired and achy for this shit, but if his gun is really still in the room, his wallet…

When the door finally pops open Dean goes right along with it, catching himself against the table by the window. Once he straightens and surveys the room, his heart sinks.

The room has been stripped, cleaned. Turned over for the next guest. The weapons bag is gone, along with his duffel of clothes. He takes slow steps further into the room, as though maybe in his fevered daze he'd had enough foresight to hide his things somewhere else in the room.

It's all gone.

A light, hesitant knock on the doorframe behind him draws Dean's attention. He spins – too fast, as spots dance across his field of vision – and sees the motel manager framed by rising sunlight, holding his missing duffel bags.

"I didn't call the cops," he says. What the man doesn't say is, _but I should have._

Dean recognizes the voice immediately, the one who called the paramedics on him in the first place. He probably owes the guy for that, but he's on edge and still feeling pretty damn sick. He buries a cough in the crook of his elbow before he speaks, but it still comes out all gravel. "Look, man, I don't have any money."

The man's eyes widen behind his thick glasses. "No, no, that's not…" He raises a pudgy hand, indicating safety, and carefully steps over the threshold. "It's all here," he says, holding out the weapons duffel.

Dean's hand reflexively curls into a fist at his side, and he forces himself to relax, to step forward and accept the bags. Still, he keeps a careful, suspicious eye on this man, his hands. Waiting for the other shoe drop. There's always another shoe.

The man shifts uneasily under Dean's stare, crams his hands into his pockets. "You know," he says slowly, "there have been some strange things happening in Greenville lately."

Dean clears his throat, winces. "I heard."

"I'm assuming no more children will go missing?" he asks pointedly, lifting his chin toward the weapons bag in Dean's hand.

Dean's jaw twitches. "No," he says hoarsely. He doesn't remember packing bowling balls, but the weight of the bags is threatening to take him all the way to the floor.

The man nods. "The room is still in your name, for the next two nights, if you want it. I figured you could use the rest." The corner of his mouth quirks upward, and then he backs out of the room and onto the sidewalk without another word.

Alone again, Dean drops the bag and sinks to the edge of the mattress. He's not used to the kindness of strangers, of being paid back in any way for the job he does.

He knows better. He should hit the road, get the hell out of town. He's overstayed his welcome by more than a week at this point.

At the same time, he's _tired._ The stitch in his side is more irritating than painful, but still there. Every breath is a struggle, and he knows he's no good in any fight that will require the use of both arms, not until his shoulder heals up more.

Dean gingerly pushes himself to his feet and crosses the room to the open door, knuckles whitening around the frame as he looks out into the parking lot, where the Impala is waiting.

He won't stay the full two days, he decides, closing the door. Just until he hears from Dad.

***

When Dean next wakes, it's to a pounding head, a dark room, a dead cell phone battery – _fuck_ – and a heavy ball of dread in his gut. The phone is a direct violation of every established rule they've ever had for the damn things, and he knows before he gets it plugged in and charged up enough to power on that the other shoe has dropped. That he's missed a call. _The_ call. The one from his father that he's been desperately waiting for, for more than a week.

_"Why the hell is your phone off? I got word of a job in New Orleans, old friend who asked me if I knew anyone up to the job. I said, yeah, my son's up to it."_

He lays his head back against the wall and tries to find the concern in the pauses, in his father's voice. There's only frustration and disappointment.

_"Bill's expecting you Wednesday morning."_

With his father rattling off Bill's number in the background, Dean fumbles for anything in the room that might give him any indication of what the hell day it is. He finally remembers to check the display on his phone, sees that it's 10:14PM. Tuesday. Which means he needs to be on the road within an hour, or risk disappointing his father. Again. He calls Dad back. It rings twice before going – before being sent – to voicemail.

_"This is John Winchester…"_

Dean bites down on his lip, nods along as the rest of the message plays. "Hey, Dad, I just got your message. There was a, uh…" He doesn't need to get into the details. He knows he sounds like shit, like he's been gargling rocks and hot lava. It won't make a lick of difference. "Doesn't matter. I'm on it. Sir," he adds, and hopes it sounds like an afterthought.

He's been out of the hospital for just over twelve hours, against medical advice – but none of that matters now.

Dad needs him. It's time to get back on the job.


End file.
